


A Pleasing Shape

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [9]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Canon Continuation, Character Death, Dark fic, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Kinda canon compliant, Mentions of Abortion, Pre- The Road Not Taken, Stranded, Vala POV, dark au, orici, stranded fic, uses universe set in "The Road Not Taken", ver isca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe. Ninth in an ongoing series detailing what happened in the The Road Not Taken universe before Sam's arrival. Focuses Cameron's fall from grace and Vala's incarceration at Area 51. This story deals specifically with Cam and Vala's life in Ver Isca.
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	1. No Time To Woo

Thought he was a tad overprotective before, but since waking from some of the worst pain she’s experienced in her long, trauma-filled life, he will not release her from his eyesight.

Her view on his caring is bifurcated, while it’s nice to know that he truly cares for her—knows he cares because she saw the panic in his face when she awoke the next day and his face was red and wet with tears—he now ignores the fissure that split between then in the first place. Just cuddles up to her like he didn’t ask her to remove the amalgamation of them from her body.

She doesn’t particularly want a child, or this child, but what she does want is the room to think over such a big decision that may never come her way again. What she wants is for him to admit he was pushing, when she just wanted a little bit of time to mull over the options.

But then, she knows she’s not perfect, knows she’s guilty of investing feelings, because the more time she spent with herself holed up in the house thinking about big thick stews with huge hunks of game meat, the more she talked to herself to keep herself company because the neighboring wives were quite direct when they told her to never speak a word to them again. 

But the more she talked to herself, the more she realized that she wasn’t speaking to herself, but to the life tagging along with her.

She didn’t become enamored with the idea of being a mother—still isn’t—but in all the killing she’s done, been made to do, had no say in, this one felt wrong. Tried to talk herself down, that it really wasn’t a murder so much as a precaution, after all she didn’t enjoy her childhood on her chilly home world with similar, though laxer, values.

Cannot imagine what it would be like as a child on a world where most of the day is spent in prayer. Where the love of the Ori comes before the love of the child.

She hasn’t seen many young children—hasn’t seen any babies at all—and she wonders if the villagers specifically do not want to bring more children into the village for that reason.

“Hey, you didn’t touch your breakfast.” Cameron bounces down the stairs, full of energy from sleeping in the bed all night. She’s adopted a space on the almost comfortable couch as she’s still not completely trusting him. Believes she may love him, but as of now, when she looks him in the eye, all she can think of is what he made her do and for what reasons.

She pushes away the bowl of ground grains he created by mixing a few spices with goat’s milk. It’s tangy and peppery and not sitting well with her current condition. One she will seek Denya out to remedy again today.

As much as she doesn’t want to go through the pain again, as much as half of her wants this child, if not as just an experience, the brighter half of her knows there’s verity in Cameron’s words, and that they need to remedy the situation before she becomes more involved.

“I’m not feeling very peckish today.”

He slides an arm around her, retrieving the bowl, and while doing so, drops a kiss into her hair. She doesn’t know how he’s so civil with all this, how again he doesn’t choose to acknowledge her feelings, her need for rumination, her need for space. He gulps down a spoonful, leaning against the paltry kitchen counter. “Want me to make you something else?”

“If I wanted something else, I would make it myself.” She pushes her chair away from the table, even unhappy with the tea this morning. The weather is colder, and while the temperature reminds her of where she grew up, she would much prefer to be curled up by the fire. 

“Yeah, but why waste the fact that you have a husband at home today?”

He battles her negativity, her blatant strikes, her desire for him to leave her alone, with his comedic responses, still spooning his breakfast creation in his mouth.

“I’ll just get something to eat when we go to the tavern.” Tightens her shawl across her shoulders as she steps towards the hearth, leaning to the side and retrieving more wood to add in.

She counts the seconds before she hears his bowl clatter.

“I can do that.” The words stumble out of his mouth as he darts across the room ready to intercept her slow movement of adding a log, maybe two, to the fire.

She rolls her eyes, one hand still buckling her shawl in place. “So can I, Cameron.”

“Yeah but why—”

“Because I can.”

Immediately feels a twinge of guilt from snapping at him, unable to initially look at him. Instead she leans her heavy head against the stonework of the hearth, trying to steady her breathing in a nauseous, fatigued body with a sore back from the couch.

“Look,” his voice is calm and even, trying to lull her into listening to his apologies for the umpteenth time, “I know things have been a little stressed between us the last couple of weeks.”

At that statement she turns, offering him a doubtful expression.

“Okay, so they’ve been stressed since I found out you were pregnant—” he trails her around the couch, perching himself on the arm as she sits back on the cushions that cradled her back in all the wrong ways for the last two weeks “—but you have to believe me when I say that—”

“—all I wanted to do was protect you,” she sing-songs it along with him, glancing up at him and finding a weak smile on his face.

“Well, at least you know.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that what happened two weeks ago was completely preventable, Cameron.”

“I know I—”

“I just wanted time.”

“You can have—”

“Which you still refuse to give to me.”


	2. Drink Down All Unkindness

They go to the tavern together in the barest of senses. They travel in silence, as since their direct conversation this morning, he’s been trying to actively give her the space she wants. She walks along beside him, wearing a dress that she had to take out because her abdomen is actually starting to show the smallest signs of the life growing within her—her breasts are blunter in the matter.

The bell over the door gives out a familiar jingle as they enter the building. It’s more plentiful with villagers today as they’re having the equivalent of a religious holiday meaning no work, not much cooking, just a festival style dinner and long prostrations in the square twice today. Thankfully, the first three hours of morning prayer are over.

He holds the door for her and immediately, she strides towards Denya, leaving him to schmooze with his fellow army men.

Denya stands behind the counter—she’s never asked the relationship between Seevis and Denya, but knows they both live in this building, in separate quarters are far as she can tell. They may just be business associates, but her intuition is telling her there’s a deeper connection.

The woman she considers to be her only friend in the village is helping pour out beverages to men who are already getting rowdy, meaning they’ve been at the bar since after morning prayer, nearing four hours now.

“Denya, your dress is lovely.”

“Thank you, I see the tips I gave you for altering your dress worked.” The woman is definitely younger than her, she has a youthful face, but her knowledge is undeniable. Perhaps they get on so well because the similarities between them. “You’ve done a beautiful job.”

“Oh,” she grins, always happy to be flattered. “Thank you.”

“Have you come to help me sling drinks for the damned?” It’s somewhat of a joke. The main festivities, for which she cannot partake because she is not a man, consists of getting inebriated and speaking the truth, similar to a confession, though from what Denya has told her, the majority of men forget what they said the next day due to their level of intoxication. It’s more of a form of therapy then anything. “I’d be more than happy to pay you for your time.”

She lifts the partition to sneak behind the bar as an answer, no novice at pouring drinks. Some of the men growl with intentions, others hoot and howl, and Denya shares her rueful grin.

Amazing how no matter what planet she’s on, men are always the same.

The liquid from the bottle sloshes into the cup, and she watches how Denya adorns the different drinks. Some with a small purple berry, some with a dash of spice on the top, and just starts copying her hands and her pace.

Through the din of the crowd, they manage to find a cadence they both can communicate in, that the inebriated men don’t seem to notice. “If you send me home with a satchel of those herbs, I believe we can call this even.”

Denya’s brows crease in confusion as she adds three drops of a blue liquid to the top of her glass in the shape of a triangle. “Why would you be in need of my herbs again?”

“Denya,” speaks her name in a playful tone, hoping her friend understands the insinuation without her having to go into descriptions, but the other woman just raises her eyebrows, feigning dumb. Glancing back down at her drink and adding a sprig of herb to it, she mumbles, “you know it didn’t work last time.”

Denya’s hands pause, not for long, but long enough for the rowdy bunch of men at the counter to grow more vocal in their discontent. In a snap her hands are back to arranging glasses, lining them up to fill each in layers of three different liquids.

This time it is her who will not make eye contact.

“Did Cameron not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

They continue to busy their hands creating beautifully colored and decorated masterpieces that are thrown into the nearest mouth without forethought or gratitude.

“The tea he gave you to reverse the fatal effects stays in your system for the entire pregnancy.” Denya sets up another line of smaller glasses, placing a small purple flower in the bottom of each before pouring the same liquid on top. “When combined with the termination herbs, it becomes instantly fatal.”

Now she pauses, her hands shaking above mislaid glasses, tumbled tumblers, nowhere as neat and organized as Denya’s side. When the men start hollering at her, she snaps back into place, mechanical, just tossing random bits into glasses now.

“So, you can’t help me.”

“I’m afraid not, my friend.”

As the wave of despair circulates through her system, causing the unevenness in her hands to remain and her to drip some of the liquid onto the bar, another thought absorbs her. She sets the bottle back on the counter and turns to Denya, placing a hand on her arm. “You told Cameron this.”

Her eyes are wide again, but she doesn’t shrug off the sudden touch. “Yes.”

“He knows that there is no way to—”

“Yes.” Denya is gracious enough to interrupt her so she doesn’t have to say the action aloud. She nods, her hand covering her own softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor.


	3. Best Safety Lies in Fear

They arrive home after evening prostrations in the square which consist of mostly women, and some men who chose to remain sober in order to handle those who become too rowdy when inebriated. While manhandling of unmarried women is very much a common occurrence, sometimes a drunkard will place his hands on a ‘taken’ woman, and that’s when the law snaps into place.

It happened firsthand at the bar, after she’d done her tenure serving up drinks and caught Cameron’s eye from across the room, nodding to him to meet her. He nodded back and immediately exited the group of men he was with, not even bothering to provide them with a farewell.

However, before they could meet up at the side wall under a very disturbing painting of a boar being quartered, an unfamiliar man’s hands came upon her body, shoving her against the wall, forcing her in place, and before she had time to react, he was pulled off her, and pummeled with one lead fist about the face.

She stared at Cameron in horror of what he did as male on male violence is not permitted within the village unless directed by the Ori.

Remembers happening upon the town the first time and staring at a charred corpse in the middle of the square. Denya later told her is was a woman charged with conspiracy against the Ori, and she cannot let that happen to Cameron.

When he found out the true reason for her panicking, he chuckled, and pushed back a piece of hair which fell free from her updo. “It’s okay, I’m basically security at this thing.”

Wanted to be upset with him, because he never told her that, only that he didn’t have an intent to drink, but the wide, bemused grin on his face, makes her break out into a smile.

At home she lets her shall drop to the back of the couch as he locks the door for the night, checking to make sure everything is in place twice as he always does.

She crosses her arms, leaning back into the couch, watching him. “I had an interesting conversation with Denya tonight.”

“Really?” Slides the deadbolt in place and then tugs on the knob for good measure, the door is unmovable. “When I saw you two, you were slinging drinks like you were in Cocktail. You’re gonna have to tell me sometime where you got the skills.”

“She told me about the tea you made me.”

The amused grin dissolves from his face. “Oh.”

“She also told me that it prevents further herbal attempts to abort the fetus.”

“Oh.”

“She also told me that you knew this.”

He rubs at his face, and for the first time she notes how truly tired he appears despite having the large bed to himself for the past two weeks. “I—I didn’t mean to take the choice away from you again, I promise.”

“Cameron—”

“I wanted you to make the choice, I honestly did, but both times, I was just trying to protect you—”

“Cameron—”

“It was life threatening, and there was a remedy and I didn’t care about the consequences—”

She steps forward, her hand caressing the side of his face as she places her lips to his gentle, tasting the dryness of them, the vague fruit flavor, sweet and tingling. He stops speaking, immediately kissing her back, freezing his movements the moment she pulls away from him.

“I’m going for a bath.” Starts pulling at the fastening strings at the back of her dress, and the material begins to slacken at her shoulders and chest.

“Okay.” He watches, enamored by her movements, entranced by the expanse of skin growing as the material loosens.

“Well.” She pauses at the bottom of the loft stairs, glancing at him, still unmoving in the kitchen. “Are you coming?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Hamlet.


	4. Cupid Painted Blind

It’s better between them, though still a tad awkward.

She returns to her side of the bed and snuggling up to him when a cold gust breaks through the subpar windows. Curls into his side, her knees to her chest as much as they can be, and her hands plant onto his stomach to try and siphon his heat.

He groggily wakes, his lips smacking twice before he addresses her. “Cold, Baby?”

She nods, teeth chattering as he turns, ensconcing her with his arms, and it’s as calming as stepping into a hot spring. “Cold mother as well.”

Also refreshing is the sex they’re having more frequently now, knowing that no general, doctor, or other person with a military title will be bursting in on them.

Her nausea has half-waned, allowing her a few frisky moods as she eyes Cameron while he brings in a load of logs because she’s been stoking the fireplace as if they’re in an ice age. Watches as he rubs the back of his hand against his forehead to chase away the sweat from his exertion, from the house being as humid as a tropical island.

Licks her lips as he undresses from a day of training, the how the muscles bunch in his back, his shoulders.

Grabs his hand and leads him upstairs.

“What?”

“You,” answers before pulling him against her, so her back is resting against the stair railing. Covers his mouth with intensity he usually seeks from her, while her hand slips underneath his undershirt, fingernails grazing the hair on his stomach.

“Vala,” he half laughs, shrugging out of his buttoned shirt, kissing the side of her mouth before she redirects him. “Now?”

“Now,” growls, her hand curling against the back of his neck as she maneuvers so his knee ruts between her legs.

“At least let me get washed—” sucks on a sensitive part of his neck, tasting a day of sun and dirt, smelling him so clearly under the wilderness stitched into his skin.

Stamps her final word into his skin. “Now.”

With that, he hauls her up into his arms, still astride his legs, and runs her upstairs.

The sex is more than satiating, ending with him rolling off her, breathing heavy, and falling into a light snooze. That is, until she shakes his shoulder, with more illicit intentions in mind. Would feel embarrassed about the return and hike in her sex drive, but he’s never complained, and he is masterful with his work.

Enjoys the lulls in between, when they’re perspiring and heaving, smiling, and laughing at each other like younger versions of themselves. How he strokes a finger down her arm or twirls the end of her hair between his fingers. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they just enjoy the silence.

What they never do is speak of the baby.

A baby growing more prominent each day.

She’s already had to tailor her dresses twice. Tries not to let her pregnancy be the foreboding thought in her head, but sometimes her dress is so tight around her breasts, that it leaves a red line against her skin. Sometimes she cannot pull the ties at the back shut and has to sit on the couch wearing one of Cameron’s long-sleeved sleeping shirts as she works at removing stitching and adding in more material where it cannot be seen.

Goes a bit stir crazy halfway between their fourth and fifth months in Ver Isca. Winter has arrived and with it, torrential blizzards of fat snowflakes and icy patterns scrawling on their whistling window panes. The sun is setting earlier, leaving the village in almost complete darkness before Cameron returns home.

But he comes baring good news—not great news—the stupendous news of finding a method back to Earth—but good enough news to raise her spirits.

“Starting tomorrow I only work half days.” Tells her as he leans in to kiss her. She places both of her hands on his cheeks, keeping him in place because when he’s gone for the day, she realizes how much she truly needs him—not just for monetary or safety reasons, but when she talks, the baby doesn’t drop everything to answer. No one does, but him. “Apparently when it gets this dark this early, we start a little before lunch and end a little before sunset.”

“So, I get the pleasure of keeping you holed up in here with me to hibernate for the winter?”

“I can think of a few things we can do.” Grins as he kisses her again, kicking away the netted armor, and sliding his arms around her ribs to pluck at the dress seams at her back.

After their tussle in bed, her body still shivering from exertion and attention, he kisses her shoulder softly. “Tired?”

Nods and her nose brushes against his, she can feel his lips transform into a grin when he pecks her forehead softly. “Have a nap. I’m gonna get washed and I’ll finish the stew.”

Thinks she may nod again as the blankets from the bed raise up and over her. She burrows into the warmth they created on the mattress but has to flip from laying on her stomach as it’s getting too prominent now to support that kind of pressure for long. Doesn’t like him to see her revealed, to see her naked, because of the changes occurring in her body, skin stretching, growing harder, larger, rounder. It’s not attractive, and she doesn’t want him to find disappointment where he used to find entertainment, so mandated by her, they usually have sex in the dark, or in the flickers of the hearth downstairs.

Awakens sometime later to find her body stiff. Her shoulders tense and her bladder very full. Downstairs, Cameron has been true to his word, stocking the fire to cook the stew through, and the flames dance up across the wall, almost like fingers reaching up and over their bed.

His voice rouses her, thought he was singing as he tends to do while doing menial tasks or bathing, but another voice, a flatter, more baritone voice with a tainted accent answers him. Soundlessly shifts on the bed so she’s reclining against the pillows, tugging the blankets up to her chin because she suddenly feels overexposed.

“—She was not lying when she spoke of her inability to bare children. The child within her has as much to do with you as it does with any other man in this village.”

“Look Father—”

“I am a Prior, and you will learn one way or another that that child is the Will of the Ori.”

“And you’ll learn that I don’t care—”

“Heed your words, Cameron, remember you are unrequired in this equation.”

“This is my house, she is my wife, and that is my kid. You can tell me whatever you want, but it’s not gonna change a damn thing.”

“You value her?”

“More than anything else.”

“More than your devotion to the Ori?”

Finds her fingers clenched against the blanket, her teeth biting into her lower lip to keep her from saying something, from feeding him lines or words he needs, to keep her from just crying out. But a few seconds of not answering becomes an answer enough.

“I will attribute your lack of response to your exhaustion during the winter campaigns. You have been praised as a good leader and flouted as a one with a prowess for military expertise.” The sound of the front door locks being unbolted relaxes her, knowing the Prior is leaving. “But know that it will not protect you if you are an unbeliever.”

The door slams shut, the bolts and locks flying into place, and then what sounds like Cameron’s head hit the door lightly two or three times.

“Darling?” Beckons him when he doesn’t immediately return upstairs to her, his shadow cutting through the dancing flames, the stairs creaking as he climbs towards her.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.”

“You heard what he said about the baby?”

Nodding, she taps the bed lightly beside her, allowing the sheets to fall to just over her breasts, reminding her of dresses she would wear as Qetesh.

“What do you think about it?” He sits, then turns, throwing his legs over the mattress, but even reclined he’s further away from her than he has been since they reconciled.

“I think that a lot of more unexplainable things have happened to me.”

“Wanna know what I think?” Turns towards her, and his face accepts the warm glow of the fire outlining him.

“What?”

He reaches forward, his hand curling around the blankets clutched at her chest. Presumes he has the intention to share another tussle, because he’s been springing back quicker and quicker, so she allows him to bare her body to her hips.

But his intentions become clear, when he reaches forward, laying a large, warm hand flat against her stomach. The notion is extremely personal, more so than any activity they’ve done in bed. More so than her healing his fractured back and legs. More so than him stumbling upon her mid-assault.

This is where she is most vulnerable.

A hidden secret from everyone save for the two people present and one odd Prior.

It is where she holds her shame because she was the God of sex for so long that in her head, she still has bodily ideals, and when her body doesn’t fit into those images, when her body doesn’t fit into a dress after a third alteration, all she does is cry. 

“Cameron—” Her voice is a plea, her body becomes tense and stiff, though his hand has showed no malicious intent.

“This is my kid.”

Leaning forward, he places his face against the dip in her stomach, the cushion around a baby who does somersaults within her, who still doesn’t answer her questions. His breath is hot against her skin as his lips press delicately. “You are my kid.”

Speaks the words many times, like the baby needs to hear it more than once in order to understand, but it is really her who needs to understand.

This is him admitting whether the Prior was telling the truth and she’s carrying some Ori hybrid, or if he is truly the genetic father doesn’t matter to him either way, because he is claiming this child as his own.

Holds back the tears for as long as she can, a hand petting through his hair, the same way his hand rubs against her stomach, and when she starts shaking, quietly expressing tears, she’s surprised when he does the same.

With one more kiss he repeats, “You’re my kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream


	5. Bending Sickle's Compass Come

Cameron receives another promotion nearing the middle of the winter. She doesn’t understand the exact hierarchy of the military on this planet, but he explains that he has a few more duties than when he was active in the military on Earth.

She curls up next to him on the couch as the warmth from the fire curls before them. She leans her head on his shoulder, watching plump snowflakes drift softly against a black sky. Her arms hoop around his middle, and her stomach, now no longer hideable, sits in his lap, and his hand caresses slowly while the baby kicks within her.

“They gave me my weekly pay today.”

She yawns, suddenly tired, but nuzzles her head back against his shoulder, content when he turns his head to drop a kiss to her hairline where she still has a prominent scar. “Were you compensated appropriately?”

“And then some.”

“Enough to keep us rich in boar stew for the next month, I hope.”

“Enough to buy you a dress that actually fits.”

Her second yawn is pre-empted by her laugh, and she traces his chin with her finger. “Now that’s a waste.”

“Enough to buy you a coat.” He kisses the pad of her finger as it drifts across his lips. “So, you don’t freeze in this weather.”

“More useful, but still wasteful.”

They go for a stroll through the woods a week later after she receives her new coat and dresses from the tailor. He hands them to her, getting them a little looser so she can grow into them. A rich redness creeps into her cheeks because she’s received hundreds of gifts, thousands, human sacrifices slaughtered in her name and honor, but none has ever meant as much as this.

Only agrees to go on a short jaunt with her after she held one of his hands in both of hers and pleaded because she misses the wilderness that’s always been present in the background of her life. Misses the sound of a babbling river and the muted stillness of snow.

“Fine. Fine.” Pushes himself off the couch, ready to replace all the outerwear he took off not two hours ago when he marched home from work. Slides on his coat, and then wraps the uneven, practically abstract, scarf she knitted for him around his neck.

Helps her with her boots when he finds her with her knee bent back and trying to slip on the tough animal hide over her swelling feet. Buttons the ornate clasps on her coat and ensures the equally oblong scarf she knitted for herself is tucked neatly at her neck.

They walk slow, without a destination, just away from the village through the snow up to the middle of her calf. Stay close enough to the houses that the lanterns and lamp lights illuminate the path before them, but far enough away so the only sound they hear is their own footsteps, the huff of each other’s warm exhalations wisping away on the icy wind.

“Is this what your planet was like?” He tugs her arm through the loop of his, slowing his soldier’s gait to keep up with her waddle.

“Colder than this, Darling.” Takes in the sight of snow on what the Tau’ri call coniferous trees. If she remembers correctly, they tear one down, dragging it indoors around this time of year and decorate it with all sorts of shiny fire hazards.

It’s been over a decade since she’s seen the snow.

It’s been even longer since she’s been this happy to see it.

When she glances back to Cameron, he has a soft grin on his face. “What?”

He reaches forward and with his fingers plucks a large clump of snowflakes that have landed in her bangs. “I’ve never seen you this happy.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

“Oh, well—” guides her to him, his lips planting over her scar once again “—I gotta change that.”

“When we get home, get back to Earth—” pauses her words because she doesn’t know how to phrase the next as they haven’t spoken about what could possibly happen yet. If she’ll be imprisoned yet again, separated from him, or if he thinks the military will allow her amnesty since she is pregnant with his child.

Must sense her unease because as much as they’d both like to return to amenities they’re used to—showers, television, instant hot chocolate—the unknown of how those in charge makes it just as dangerous as living here.

Different applications of danger, but each society is no less barbarous than the other. “When we get back home, we’re gonna live close to a park so we can go on winter night strolls anytime you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Nods, steering her in the direction back to town, they’re probably only half and hour away, but it is late, and the winds are starting to pick up. “We’ll go out for dinner at a nice restaurant, our house will have a backyard perfect for barbeques, we’ll light fourth of July fireworks, I’ll take you home to meet my mom—she’s gonna spoil you and this kid rotten.”

Is about to respond with pessimism, even though his outlook is so positive. He truly believes that they’ll return, everyone will be so happy to see them and so grateful that they’ve brought such pertinent information with them that they’ll gladly let her live with him without supervision and raise their not entirely Tau’ri child in peace without the threat of violence.

There are too many variables in this situation to allow her to remain completely optimistic.

Doesn’t want him to be wary of this, wary of her way of thinking, so instead she hugs herself against his arm and their feet start to crunch over the snow, the wet kind that’s been exposed to freezing temperatures at night creating a supportive layer of ice atop. When she was young she could walk on it for leagues and never leave a footprint, actually, was able to do this up until very recently because now when she walks, her foot goes right through the snow and she’s never felt so big in her life.

As if the baby can hear her ill thoughts, despite how quickly they disappear, she receives quite a kick to her side, forcing out a gasp.

Cameron stops immediately, one hand placed against her arm, helping to hold her and the other bouncing through the air, energetic, ready to go where she needs relief.

“Are you okay? What happened? Do you need—”

“Fine, Darling, I’m fine.” Grins despite the situation, laying a cool hand on his cheek, because as much as he tries to control their future, their present even, one little upset makes him completely lose his balance.

“Good. Good.” Helps her stand straighter again, hauling her up by her elbow. “What was that?”

“Your child decided to punt me in some internal organ.”

“Hey.” His eyebrows fall stern, and for a moment she believes he’s addressing her, but he pats her stomach gently. “Go easy on your mom, will ya?”

With a smile, she fixes the scarf at the back of his neck so the newly falling snow doesn’t descend down the crevasse. “I’m fine, Cameron.”

He shivers, retrieving her hand and holding it in his. “No, you’re not.” Breathes the words against her skin to warm her. “You’re freezing.”

Should tell him that what may appear freezing to him is natural to her, that even though she feels cold, her body doesn’t actually respond to it until it’s well below this temperature. Instead she tugs at the scarf, pulling it into place again. “We’d best be getting home then.”

They trudge through the snow in silence and she becomes entranced watching the snowflakes grow bright under the lamp lights. Soon their footsteps begin to ease as untraveled wilderness bleeds it’s way into cobblestone streets with different-sized shoe prints and some hoof stamps.

That’s when they start to hear the commotion.

The square is filled with villagers, in fact, it’s practically overflowing despite the cold temperatures and threat of a blizzard. Everyone is gathered in the center, the place where prayers and prostrations usually take place.

“What could that be?”

“I don’t know, maybe some religious thing?”

“Yes, don’t Tau’ri celebrate the solstice?”

“Not—exactly—” Cameron chooses to not expand more on the subject, instead starting to break through the layers of people shouting.

From what she can make out, the words and tone are angry, clouds of air puffing out from heated voices. Once they get to the town center, there’s a group of men preparing the shackles bolted to the bench, and her mind flashes back to their arrival and the charred corpse that greeted them.

Is about to pull Cameron back to their home, away from whatever violence will be enacted in a few minutes, but he hasn’t noticed what she has. Instead he’s noticed a particular man standing feet away with a content expression. “Tomin?”

“Cameron, my friend—” Tomin greets with the casual arm shake, then takes her hand more daintily. “Vala, you are aglow. Motherhood suits you well.”

“Tomin, what’s happening?” Cameron must notice them preparing because the redness from the winds drains from his face.

“A nonbelieving conspirator has been discovered in Ver Isca.” Tomin steps forward pointing to where one man, the tailor who made her this coat and dress, and another man, believes he’s their neighbor from a few doors down, nod to each other when the shackles have no give. “I do not want to appear boastful, but the prior guided me towards them and I was able to—”

“Your leg.” Cameron interrupts, pointing at the no longer lame and limping appendage. “It’s—”

“Healed. Yes.” A great, proud grin graces Tomin’s face from the corner of his lips to his eyes. “The Prior healed me for discovering the nonbeliever. I am now able to serve the Ori in a more substantial way. Though I am pleased to sever the Ori, I am also relieved that the nonbeliever was captured and will be eliminated before their plot could come to fruition.”

“What plan?”

“To sabotage the vessels we have strove so hard to create. Apparently weapons were to be implemented to—”

But his voice fades away, as does Cameron’s and the near hundred other villagers yelling for retribution, because they bring out the conspirator, who kicks and screams, each of her arms being held down by a man. She cries for help, her face wet and red not from a happy snow jaunt. A cut on her cheek and one on her temple bleeds as she openly sobs while being shackled to the bench.

Their eyes meet as she draws in a heaving breath, while flaming oil is prepared a few feet away.

“Help me,” she says aloud, but is polite enough to not mention her by name.

She starts to climb towards the woman, over the uneven steps of the maze. Gets exactly two steps in before Cameron reels her backwards, and when she tries to shake him off, to fight against him, he’s able to reign her in, both his arms bound around hers as she stares up at her friend as a sacrificial pullet.

“Let me—”

Cameron jolts her, shakes her hard enough to cause her to still. His chin is on her shoulder, and his voice is a low growl, “you wanna end up with her?”

“We have to—”

But it’s too late.

“It is time my friends.” Tomin claps a hand onto Cameron’s back, not noticing her turmoil, or their spat.

The oil is poured and courses quickly through the maze. She wrenches against Cameron’s body, pushing back against him as her friend still begs for help. He turns her, tries to walk away, perhaps back to their house, but Tomin stops him.

“It is a great honor to experience the death of a nonbeliever from so near.”

They are forced to stay.

Cameron releases her as her body trembles into shock upon watching Denya emit a shrill, raw scream while the fire laps at her feet and the hem of her dress.

And her friend stares at her while burning alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116

**Author's Note:**

> Story title borrowed from Shakespeare's Hamlet  
> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.


End file.
